


You Can Always Come Home Again

by billiethepoet



Series: Like Father, Like Son [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doubts rage when MI-6's best agent goes missing but you're never too old for some fatherly assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Always Come Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to the wonderful Mazarin221b for her beta and to the spectacular chess_ka for her beta/Brit pic assistance.

John is nodding off in the well worn armchair sitting by the fire in 221b. It’s happening more and more these days. Since Lestrade’s retirement, cases have been fewer and fewer but Dimmock sends them interesting things from time to time. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind the stretches of inbetween time as much as he would have once. He experiments, reads about bees, Hamish comes for tea, there’s still a spot of danger... it’s a comfortable life.

John looks to his right and Sherlock is rising from the sofa. The years have added streaks of silver to his curls and deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. _Laugh lines,_ John thinks. _Would he have grown those if we’d never met? Would they have been as deep?_

Those lines collapse into a look of deep concern as Sherlock wraps a sleek green dressing gown around himself. That’s when John notices the sound that must have woke him from his unintentional nap: feet pounding up the stairs to their flat. John is up from his chair in an instant, age and creaking bones forgotten.

“I think tea will be in order, John.” Sherlock moves toward the door while John’s sleep fuzzed brain is still trying to process who could be stomping up their stairs. He hasn’t made it to the kitchen before Sherlock jerks open the door.

It’s Hamish. Not with his usual quick, light steps or his relaxed and happy smile, but it’s Hamish nevertheless. He’s disheveled, with what John recognizes to be at least a week’s worth of stubble growing in uneven patches across his jaw, and his eyes are wide.

Sherlock takes it all in with a glance. “How long?” He barks out before Hamish can fully cross the threshold.

“17 days. No contact, no reports from other field operatives, no emergency transmissions. He’s just gone.” Hamish brushes past his father and sinks onto the sofa. He leans forward, elbows on knees and hands clenched in thick dark waves. It’s easy for John to think he’s stepped back in time 30 years as he watches Hamish’s hands twist and pull. Their son looks up, frustration and fear more easily identifiable on his face than it ever was on Sherlock’s. “I can’t find him.”

“That has to happen often your line of work, right?” John keeps his question as neutral as possible, not wanting to add to Hamish’s concern, but his crossed arms are rigid and pressed tightly to his chest.

Hamish’s eyes shift to John. “We sent him to the field with a support agent.” He looks back to Sherlock. “We found most of her this morning. In a rubbish bin in Algeria.” 

Sherlock holds Hamish’s gaze for a few moments and John can see calculations and deductions flying behind both sets of blue eyes. Sherlock gives a terse nod, spins on his heel, and flies through the bedroom door. “John! Tea!” He calls as the door slams closed.

Hamish leans back against the cushions and closes his eyes. His shoulders slump but deep lines of tension stay etched on his face. John pads quietly to the kitchen, taking refuge in the ritual of tea making. He flips the switch on the electric kettle, takes down three mugs, and measures out Hamish’s favorite blend. John tries to clear his mind, to think of what would comfort Hamish. Their son may have Sherlock’s genes but is much more prone to vocalizing his feelings than Sherlock is. If Sherlock gave him his genius, John at least gave him a more balanced emotional maturity.

Tea made, John returns to the sitting room. Hamish takes his cup gratefully but stays silent. Though Hamish hasn’t told him in as many words, he knows the signs of loving a dangerous man. He’s had the same thoughts, same worries, spin through his own mind when Sherlock was unreachable or in danger.

Hamish’s voice is barely a whisper in the near silence of Baker Street when he finally does decide to speak. “What if he’s already dead?”

“He’s a highly trained secret agent, Hamish. He can get himself out of whatever he’s landed in.”

“I know.” Hamish sighs. “I’ve seen him in the field. I’ve been out there with him. And I’ve seen him after he comes back. He gets the job done but it’s not always pretty.” Hamish pushes his still brimming mug onto the battered coffee table.

Sherlock takes this opportunity to barrel back into the room, now fully dressed in a well fitted suit and shiny black shoes. “I’m going to see Mycroft.”

Hamish is on his feet in an instant. “Good. He’s at MI-6, keeping a continuous eye on the situation. We can hail a cab and be there in 20 minutes.”

“No.” Sherlock steps in front of Hamish, blocking his way to the door. “You’re staying here.”

Hamish stares at his father defiantly as long moments tick by. Finally, his voice rasps out “Please. I can help.”

“You’re exhausted. You’ve done all that you can. I promise Mycroft and I will call if we need you.” Sherlock’s voice is tender as he wraps his hands around Hamish’s shoulders to guide him back to the sofa. Hamish sinks his head into his hands as he settles back into the cushions.

Sherlock rests his hand on the back of Hamish’s bent head. John watches as long, pale fingers run through thick, dark hair. _Just like when he was a boy,_ John thinks.

Sherlock’s voice is a hoarse whisper when he pulls his hand from Hamish’s head. “I’ll be back, with your James.”

He’s halfway down the stairs before John catches up with him. He manages to catch Sherlock’s sleeve and spin him around. He stays a step above his husband, bringing their eyes to an almost even level.

“Why are you leaving him behind?”

“Seventeen days is a long time for a spy to be off the grid. I’m sure he’s had assistance staying that way. It may be...messy.”

John lowers his voice, in case Hamish is listening. “You think he may already be dead?” 

Sherlock responds with a slow nod. “And so does Hamish.” 

“Sherlock, be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“No, you’re not.”

Sherlock grins then quickly pecks John on the lips. “I’ll be with Mycroft. Safe as houses. Or, at least, he’s the size of a house.”

John frowns at him. “I’m serious. These are trained spies and assassins. Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m always cocky.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s last statement, John pushes forward. “And don’t promise Hamish something you may not be able to deliver.”

Sherlock’s grin fades at that. He leans in to press a longer kiss to his husband’s lips. “I’ll be back. I’ll be careful. And I’ll bring James Bond with me.”

************  
When John returns to the sitting room, Hamish is lying on his side on the sofa, knees curled tight against his chest.

“He’ll find Bond. Your father is determined.”

Hamish stays quiet while John gathers up the cooling tea, knowing neither of them is in the mood to drink it. He returns the mugs to the kitchen and is back in his armchair before Hamish finally speaks.

“What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

John’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

Hamish’s voice is strained and his arms wrap around his knees. “He’s done this before. Just disappeared.” Hamish pauses and John waits, giving his son time to say what he needs to say.   
“Disappeared because he’s tired of MI-6 or because he’s bored.” Hamish laughs weakly “Or because he’s fallen in love.”

“Oh, Hamish...” John’s voice is pained, his own heart hurting to see his son filled with such doubt. “I’m sure Bond wouldn’t do that.” He leaves the _to you_ unsaid.

“Like I said, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No.” John is more forceful this time. “I saw him in Miami, I saw what he was like when you were hurt. He wouldn’t leave you like this.”

“Father left you once.”

That stops John cold. Sherlock’s three year hiatus was long before Hamish came along, before they were even really a proper couple, but they never kept the story from Hamish. How could they when John had written about Sherlock’s death and return so publicly? The silence stretches between them, growing icy, until John finally clears his throat.

“It wasn’t like that, when Sherlock left. He had to go. We were just friends, flatmates, then and he was trying to protect me, protect all of us...” John can see he’s losing the battle from the expression on Hamish’s face.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hamish sounds so much like Sherlock in that moment that John almost laughs. “You may not have been a couple yet but you loved each other. Everyone said it was like a lightening strike from the first day you met. Mrs. Hudson told me how unhappy you were while Father was gone. Aunt Molly still tears up when she talks about the two of you together. James and I... we’re not like that. We’ve never been like that. We’re not some great love. We’re just some overworked government agents that shag and sometimes go out to dinner. That’s it.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” And John really believes that, he’s not just trying to make his son feel better about the potential collapse of the first serious relationship he’s had since university. “You and Bond have been together for...what? A year? A little more?” He presses on, not waiting for acknowledgement. “It’s not just shagging. And even if it were, he wouldn’t just disappear on you.”

Hamish doesn’t respond. John leans back in his chair and tries not to stare at his son, still curled on the sofa like a child. The streetlights flicker on outside the Baker Street windows.

“I think I’m in over my head with him.” Hamish breaks the silence as the sounds of evening traffic pick up on the street below. “If he comes back, which I’m not sure Father will even be able to find him anyway, maybe I should just call it off?”

“Why?”

Hamish sits up and his hands tear at his hair in frustration. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m a grown man reduced to going to his parents for help because the man he’s pretty sure he’s in love with has either swanned the fuck off to who knows where or is dead in a ditch?” His hands slide down to cover his face. The next bit comes out in a broken sob, muffled by his hands. “How do you do this all the time? Send Father out like that?”

“Hey, hey now.” John slides forward so he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Hamish. He pulls Hamish’s hands away from his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m almost always out there with him. He can’t be trusted alone. He’s never been good at taking care of himself.” John’s brevity fails. “It’s hard, yeah. It’s always going to be hard if you love someone who puts themselves at risk. But, both Bond and your Father, are very good at what they do. Very good.” John pauses to take a deep breath. “But more importantly, if Bond is anything like your Father, he needs it. He needs the danger, the thrill of it all... It’s part of who he is.”

“That sounds more like you than like Father.” Hamish’s chuckle is forced and a bit wet sounding.

“Maybe a bit.” John smiles back at him. “Hamish, if you really love him, don’t give up on him. I thought about giving up on your father so many times and I would have regretted it for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t have you.”

“I may not get the chance to give up on him. He may already be gone.”

“Sherlock and Mycroft will find him. After the way he looked at you in Miami, no. He wouldn’t just disappear on you.” John rises from the floor, knees creaking. “I hate to say it Hamish, but you look like hell. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Three? Four days ago?” John’s scowl is enough for Hamish. He rises from the sofa and stretches. “Alright. I’ll try to get some rest.”

“There’s a cot in your father’s lab, but I have no idea what he’s been cooking up there.”

“I knew it was a terrible decision to let him turn my room into an ongoing chemistry experiment.” A small smile slips across Hamish’s lips, his first of the evening.

John lets out an exasperated laugh. “You know neither you or I had much say in that.”

Hamish glances warily at the ceiling. “I guess I’ll just kip on the sofa. Less chance of inhaling noxious fumes that way.”

“You try to get some rest and I’ll run down to the chippie and get a takeaway.” John pulls on his coat as Hamish settles back on the sofa. He lays out on his back, hands locked together across his stomach. So close to how Sherlock rests on the same sofa.

By the time John returns, Hamish has turned on his side, back to the sitting room, and is sound asleep.

***************  
They spend the next three days like this; Hamish barely speaking and only occasionally getting up from the sofa to stalk the sitting room. John is glad of that though. Hamish needed to sleep, to let his body heal itself a bit, even if his mind is still troubled. Hamish does, about once a day, erupt in a flurry of activity, convinced that he needs to go back to MI-6 headquarters and join the search effort. John calms him, reminds him that he searched for weeks and had no luck, and that if his father and uncle need him, they’ll send for him. Hamish’s reactions range from angry to resigned, depending on the day.

After Hamish’s first uncomfortable night on the sofa, John gave him a pair of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and a faded t-shirt. Sometimes, John catches Hamish out of the corner of his eye, standing in the window with hands on his hips and bare toes pulling at the rug, and for just a moment wonder if Sherlock had misplaced his dressing gown again.

During their time sequestered in Baker Street, John receives regular text updates from Sherlock.

_Mycroft is an insufferable arse. SH_

_May have found trace on Bond. Don’t tell Hamish yet. SH_

_How the country has not fallen yet is a mystery. MI-6 is the last refuge of the criminally incompetent. SH_

_May need to leave the country. Don’t trust Mycroft’s agents to retrieve Bond on their own. Will update. SH_

John reads all of them away from Hamish’s too keen eyes. He’s nearly as good as his father at deduction and John doesn’t want to give him false hope, or unwarranted despair.  
On the third day, John’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Hamish is sitting on the sofa, cross-legged with a beekeeping manual across his lap, but staring vacantly toward the fireplace. John excuses himself to the bathroom before pulling out his phone.

_Have Bond. Has been seen by field medics but insists on seeing Hamish before going to hospital. We are bringing him to Baker Street. SH_

Reading the words across his screen, the tension that has taken up residence across John’s broad shoulders over the past few days snaps. He barrels out of the bathroom and back into the sitting room.

“Hamish! Hamish! They have him. They found Bond. He needs to go to the hospital but he’s on his way here first.”

“Here?” Hamish rises from the couch, wiping his hands nervously across the front of his t-shirt. “No, he needs to go to the hospital. I can meet him there...” He’s already pulling his pile of folded clothes from beside the sofa, ready to speed to Bond’s bedside, when the door to Baker Street bangs open below them.

“I think they beat you to it.” John smiles, relieved that at least Bond is alive, conscious, and still stubborn enough to insist on his own path of travel.

The footsteps coming up the stairs are slower and more careful than John is used to hearing his husband or Mycroft use. Hamish bolts to the door, throwing it wide as Mycroft reaches the top step. Behind him is Sherlock, supporting a grimacing Bond as he drags a hastily splinted leg up the stairs.

Hamish steps back, allowing the men to enter and waits while Sherlock eases Bond to the sofa.

“What the hell happened, James? 20 days and no contact? Where the hell were you?”

It’s not Hamish’s best line of questioning. In addition to the full length splint on his left leg, Bond’s hands are both wrapped in thick gauze, his face is bruised and cut, and there’s a suspicious wheezing noise when he breathes that John recognizes as a sign of punctured lung.

Bond’s attempted smile borders on a grimace. There’s dried blood staining his teeth. “Mali. Experiencing the local color.”

Hamish pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily in a pose that John knows well. “Christ. I thought you were dead.”

Bond pushes himself to stand in front of Hamish. His eyes stay his crystal clear blue, not showing any of the pain standing and balancing his weight on his good leg must cause. “I’m not that easy to kill.” Bond’s voice drops low, barely carrying to John’s ears even though he’s standing just behind Hamish. “Especially when I have a reason to come home.”

“You’re still an arse.” Hamish wavers forward but doesn’t touch Bond. Bond’s smile grows a bit wider. A cut at the edge of his lip reopens and fresh blood pools at the surface. Hamish rocks back on his heels, preparing to move away, as he looks away from Bond’s bleeding face. Bond’s hand strikes out, middle and index finger meeting thumb to close around Hamish’s wrist. He pulls slightly and Hamish steps close. 

Bond leans forward, tilting his head to Hamish’s ear. His lips rest there a moment and Hamish’s head shields them from the other men in the room. “I’m fine,” Bond murmurs. “I’ll be fine.” When he pulls back, a smudge of blood stays on the shell of Hamish’s ear. 

Mycroft clears his throat from the doorway. “We need to get 007 to the hospital. We have a car waiting. Hamish, would you like to accompany us?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I’m coming. You’ve kept me out of this for days. I’m not staying behind any longer.” Hamish’s hands flutter uselessly by his sides for a moment. “Dressed. I need to get dressed.” He begins to gather up the pile of clothes that dropped to the floor with Bond’s entrance.

John sees his chance and snaps to action. “Right. I’ll help James down stairs. Mycroft, you can wait for Hamish to get dressed and then meet us at the car.” Hamish is so distracted by scooping up his socks that he doesn’t notice his dad’s obvious ploy. Mycroft does and gives a slight smile as he leans against the wall between the bedroom and the sitting room door. “And, Sherlock, some tea if you please.” John is already sliding his compact shoulders under Bond’s arm before he notices Sherlock’s shocked face.

“Tea? I don’t make tea.” Sherlock’s eyebrows are high enough to brush his fringe and his mouth slacks open.

John hefts Bond’s weight and moves toward the door. “Just boil the damn water. I need a drink.”

Sherlock scowls at Mycroft’s smirk as John and Bond disappear through the door, with John’s foot kicking it closed behind them.

They make it down three steps before Bond breaks the silence. “I assume there’s a reason you arranged a few moments alone.”

John’s mouth is a hard line, in part because of the effort of lugging Bond down the stairs and in part because of what he is about to say. “Yes. You can’t do this to him again.”

“Despite popular opinion, being captured and beaten wasn’t on the top of my to do list.”

“I didn’t mean that and you know it. You can’t leave him without saying anything. You can’t just disappear.”

Bond is quiet as they scrape down step number five. “I may not have a choice.”

“I don’t mean in the line of duty. I mean if you decide to leave Hamish.” John can feel Bond tense beside him. “You can’t just disappear. He deserves better than that. It’s too hard when... when someone you care about just goes away.” The burning in John’s chest isn’t just from exertion this time, but he pushes it away.

Bond pulls them up short on the eighth step. “I’m not going to leave him.”

“You can promise that, yeah?”

“Yes.”

John twists his neck to be able to look Bond in the eyes. He holds Bond’s gaze until he hears the sitting room door open and Hamish’s quick footfalls on the stairs behind them. “Good,” John breathes out before Hamish nudges him forward and slides under Bond’s arm. John descends the stairs in front of them and turns in time to see Bond’s face turn toward Hamish, nose pressed into his hair and eyes closed. Mycroft is standing at the top of the stairs, giving Bond and Hamish time to get to the car.

After all the members of MI-6 are tucked into the black estate car and on their way to the hospital, John trudges back up the stairs. He is genuinely shocked when Sherlock presses a warm mug into his hand.

“Have you sufficiently warned James off breaking our son’s heart then?”

His voice is warm, the tone he uses with John and John alone. John smiles and settles into his armchair to sip his tea. “I’m not sure I had to.”

“And yet...”

John pulls the union jack pillow, not the original but a replacement Hamish had given them as an anniversary gift years earlier, from behind his back and tosses it at Sherlock’s head. Sherlock deflects it easily. John smirks over the rim of his mug at him before taking a sip.

“This is good. You can make a good cuppa and I’ve been doing it for both of us for over thirty bloody years.”

Sherlock strides toward John’s chair, coming to stand beside it and cupping his hand around the back of John’s skull. “I like your tea.”

“Hmmmm. Still not getting out of making it from now on.” John smiles up at him and takes another sip.

Sherlock presses a kiss to the top of John’s head. He stays bent low to murmur in John’s ear. “He won’t do to Hamish what I did to you. He’s a better man than I am.”

John’s response is automatic and heartfelt. “No he’s not.”

“Yes, he is. He’s like you.”

John leans back to look at Sherlock as if he’s grown a second head. Sherlock stares back, completely serious and immovable in his opinion. John huffs out a laugh. “I’m flattered that you’re comparing me to an attractive and deadly MI-6 agent decades younger than I am. But should Hamish be flattered that you think he’s fallen for a man that reminds him of his dear old dad?”

This time Sherlock kisses John hard on the lips. “Yes. He’ll never give up on Hamish and he’ll love him intensely.”

John’s hand slides to Sherlock’s cheek, fingers playing with his curls. “Thank you for finding James.”

“I had to. For Hamish.”

John kisses Sherlock and Sherlock takes the opportunity to pull John to stand in his arms. They kiss, slowly and sweetly with many years practice behind them, for a few long moments before John pulls back with a grin. “You’re still not getting out of tea making.”

*********  
Sherlock and John have been tucked in bed, sleepy and sated and wrapped in each other arms, for hours before Hamish’s text message blinks to life on both their phones.

_From: Hamish Watson-Holmes_   
_Thank you._


End file.
